


Through a Glass Darkly

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Self-Reflection, Self-Worth Issues, There's Not Really A Story To This
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 17:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14217894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: Now we see a dim reflection... now I know only a part.~ 1 Corinthians 13:12





	Through a Glass Darkly

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of a gander at the way each person in the OT3 views themselves/their part in the relationship.

_Wyatt_

He thinks he’s the weakest link.

Look, he knows—he’s aware—that he’s not the most confident out of all of them when it comes to this whole, being together thing. Lucy’s got her own hang-ups and half the time Flynn looks like they’re all insane for not clapping him in irons, but neither of them ever seem to doubt that the way they feel about each other is okay, that it’s right. If anything, for Lucy and Flynn it’s the only thing keeping them sane.

But Wyatt still looks in the mirror sometimes and sees the shades of his father’s face. His father was a hard man, not a good man but a hard one, the kind that would drill his world view into your skin until it was there like an invisible tattoo. You could smudge the lines of it, turn it into a colored blur with laser removal, hell, take a cattle prod to it—but you couldn’t ever really get rid of that ink on your skin. The ghost of it was still there.

The ghost of it is still there.

He always feels bad for not touching Flynn around the others. He’ll touch Lucy. Touching Lucy is easy. Flynn touches Lucy easily as well and she flits between them like a spoiled cat, letting Wyatt wrap his arms behind her while she’s eating breakfast and falling asleep with her head on Flynn’s shoulder during movie night.

But touching Flynn—he still can’t do it where others can see. And he knows they won’t judge him. They should because, well, gender aside it’s _Flynn_ , but they don’t. Nobody mutters “fag” or “queer” under their breath—and he’s come to claim that second word, take it as his own the way so many others have, but it’s just like any other word, you can make it ugly if you say it in a certain tone of voice.

Nobody stares. Nobody actively avoids staring. Nobody talks too loudly and pretends they don’t see anything. Everybody’s so nice about it. Christopher, of course, because she’s got a wife at home. Mason because he doesn’t seem to really care about anyone’s sexuality or gender or whatever the hell else so long as they get him results. Jiya and Rufus wouldn’t judge a fly.

So it’s not them. He knows it’s not really them. It’s him.

He tries to make up for it. Really he does. He presses into Flynn when they’re alone, or when it’s just Lucy sitting on the couch or napping on the bed or up to her elbows in research. He takes his hand, holds it, holds it tight, bares his throat like he’s half-expecting Flynn to tear it out instead of gently run this mouth and tongue over it.

But he worries—it’s not enough.

He wasn’t enough for Jess. How could he be, the broken soldier, who only half came home, who was only half a person after all his father put him through. How could he really fulfill anyone?

He keeps waiting for the ball to drop—for Flynn to get angry and tell him it’s not enough. For Lucy to sigh and quietly admit that he’s not giving her what she needs. He lies awake at night and waits, and waits, and waits.

It never comes. Flynn just lets Wyatt come to him, waits for Wyatt to press up against him, gets greedy only when Wyatt says please. Lucy opens her arms to him with warm smiles, presses up against his back at night, peppers kisses on his face.

But he knows, he knows, he’s the weakest link.

 

* * *

 

_Lucy_

They’re going to leave her.

It won’t be their choice. She knows that. She’s doubted a lot of things in her time, especially over the course of the last year or so, but she’s never doubted that they love her. It’s in Wyatt’s face in aching, raw clarity, his emotions as plain as day, written on his skin like brands. It’s in Flynn’s taut body hovering just behind her or just in front of her, hand half pulled back towards his gun, every part of him screaming that he will die before anything gets to her.

But time is something they cannot control.

She doesn’t know if it’s just that they are ants, unable to see the scope of what they’re doing, or if God really does exist and is laughing at them, but time travel doesn’t mean that they actually control anything.

Every time they come back, the world has changed in ways they didn’t expect. And she can’t always have both Flynn and Wyatt with her.

Someday, one of them won’t be there when she gets back.

Someday, one or both of them is going to leave her.

That’s how this works. Amy left her. Mom left her. Dad left her.

Everybody leaves her.

She just wishes she knew of a way to make them stay, to put so many touchstones into the annals of time that nothing will ever be able to shake the foundations of who they are together. She would rend time itself to keep them—but she doesn’t know how. She’s one of the foremost experts on history in the country if not yet the world, and she still doesn’t know. The rules are being written and rewritten as they go, time is in pencil not in pen, and she doesn’t know how.

She loves them, the way that tragic heroines love, embracing each present moment because it might be the last. She welcomes their touches and words, hungry, insatiable, gluttonous in her love for them, soaking up everything they give her and still demanding more, more, more, like if she gets enough she can store it up and then release it back again when the day comes and they aren’t with her anymore, like releasing that love will somehow call them back to her.

They’re going to leave her.

She only hopes she gets to say goodbye.

 

* * *

 

 

_Flynn_

He knows he doesn’t deserve them.

They’re going to realize it someday. Hell, he keeps expecting to wake up with a gun to his head courtesy of Wyatt. Or a punch in the face.

When are they going to remember that they’re sharing their bed with a murderer?

He still doesn’t understand how every time they’re alone Wyatt comes to him, face full of love and contriteness, wrapping his arms around Flynn like he’s adrift and he needs Flynn to anchor him. He still doesn’t get how Lucy leans into him so trustingly when she’s tired or injured or sad, lets him pick her up and carry her, trusts him to keep her safe.

He doesn’t think that they see how much he can see of their love. Wyatt beats himself up for it but how can he think he doesn’t love Flynn enough when he reaches for Flynn’s hand in the dark, grabs it, holds on for dear life? How can Lucy think she doesn’t say it enough when she clings to him, his shadow, following him like if she blinks he’ll disappear?

He’s waiting for the day the other shoe drops and they realize that it’ll be good if he disappears.

He’s living on borrowed time when it comes to their hearts. He’s done too much, said too much, it has to all bite him in the ass at some point. He won’t walk away because he’s a selfish man and they are so beautiful, so, so beautiful inside and out, it feels like worship to touch them and love them, but they’re going to walk away from him someday. It’s only a matter of time.

Until then, though—until they wise up and decide to stop sharing their bed with a monster—he’s going to give them everything. Nobody will get to them while he still breathes. Nobody will so much as look at Lucy wrong. Nobody will ever make Wyatt feel ashamed of who he is. Because he knows what he’s done, he does, he’s never denied that what he did deserved jail, that he was putting himself on the wrong side of history for this. He just doesn’t get how they don’t see it that way.

Sometimes, at night, he’ll lie awake and just watch them. Wyatt snores ever so softly, like a kitten, and he’s restless, which is why they stick him on the end of the bed. Lucy curls up and plasters herself to whoever’s closest, both of them if she can manage it, leeching off of their warmth. Flynn just watches them, listens to their breathing, feeling some internal clock ticking downwards towards zero.

He loves them. Loves them with the kind of desperation and fire of a man who’s already loved and lost in the worst way once and doesn’t intend to lose again. He loves them to the point where he feels like he’s always bruising them, his kisses too rough, his touches too tight, clutching for fear of the day they slip away.

He loves them beyond reason.

But he knows that he doesn’t deserve them.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Through a Glass Darkly [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15670584) by [brassmama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brassmama/pseuds/brassmama)




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